The Messenger
by harmoniedusoir
Summary: A whole patrol left for Ilunibi. One trooper returned. To carry a message. T for potentially disturbing imagery. Experimental one-shot.


_A whole patrol left for Ilunibi. One trooper returned. To carry a message._

_**The Messenger**_

Running, running, running. And running, every foot slapped into muck a lifeline to the world, to this mulch-smelling swamp, to Nirn. Every breath a prayer, every stumble a word whispered in desperate thanks. Every slick, wet vine that grasps me is a reminder and as my feet slap, slap, slap I am anchored. I am alive.

No, not alive.

I have survived.

[...]

I remember signing up. Some part of me has been allowed to. Some breath of fresh air; whilst this grey-green dankness claws at my throat, mocking me with its vitality, mocking me with my own. Because I can see it clearly.

And it is another life.

[...]

The hopes. The dreams. The promise of reliability. One iron cuirass standard issue size. A pair of boots. A warm meal twice a day and a bed unmade.

Sign up with the Legion, they'll see you right.

They saw me right. Right to the end.

And hopes were hopeless, reliable became unreliable and dreams…

[...]

A monster tears through the bitter landscape now. No, more than a monster. And somehow less. Stones bite at its feet as they burst the boots, tiny teeth, life unbound. Indifferent, wilful life takes all. The cold sweat that clenches a spine on sudden impact, pricking every pore. But it doesn't hurt.

Not yet.

[...]

I am so eager to do my family proud. Leaving for Vvardenfell is a brave move, a foolish move, but if I can make good, I can do anything.

I can make my family proud.

My mother, slight and wispy, a strong wind could knock her down. My leaving nearly did. But she waved me off, tears glinting in each eye, a promise to be reunited.

My father always wanted a soldier for a son.

[...]

It is some pitiful beast surely, that stops, breath tearing a ragged hole in its lungs. Muscles tear too, string by string, fibres split like a hair under tension, ripping, shifting, bleeding, pulling. And snap. Then a true howl appears and it is something human, so utterly terrifyingly human that you would lie to yourself that it has to be a beast. Nothing human makes that noise. Weighed down, lighter than ever, a club for a leg and a stick for an arm. Twisted, low, high and base. Moans again and shuffles. The thick pus is yellow, brighter than a star and twice as hot.

I see it and I'm apart from it.

Thick and juicy, ravenous and dripping with salacious delight. I could sink my teeth into no more tender or heavenly a cut of meat…

I'm hungry now.

[...]

I'm a good recruit. Not the best, but diligent, efficient. I follow orders. And I rise my way to trooper. They send us out on patrol. Standard procedure, they tell us. Combing the cave for smugglers they tell us.

Those little rats that sneak below and claw their way in and everything changes because of one choice, one decision, one being.

I'm a good soldier. I follow orders.

[...]

It's raining. What was clothing is now rags, whipped and beaten, yearning to tear away and join the wind in some dance of freedom. Armour is gone, perhaps swallowed by ravenous flesh, or twisted, now bone, now the new skin. A lopsided thing, less than alive but oh so living. Organs strive to relocate, a pulsing, sick feeling. And it chokes, and it burns, and it _rips_.

There are puddles now.

I can see myself.

[...]

When we reach the shrine, I'm the only left.

And he is waiting for me.

Closer than an embrace, more attentive than a lover, he slips into me. His curse, his gift, seeds into my flesh and blood and mind. It burns, it twists, it takes what it likes and it changes. Corruption.

Once this word meant something different to me. Fat officials, lounging in their sumptuous silks, spoiling in their ill-gotten gains.

Now I understand how keenly it can mean a blackening, My mind bursts into a million tiny fragments each its own plane of Oblivion. The disconnect. See myself, my life every decision and non-decision what might have been and could have been.

And in between the pieces, his tendrils slide, caressing, pulping, altering. Corrupting.

What is within and without, I see what was, what is and what will become.

He leaves words.

He lets me go, so I might take them to the others.

[...]

No.

It is me and it cannot be me this thing oh Divines help me this nightmare this thing has taken my flesh and it hurts but not as much as realising that it has taken my mind and my flesh and twisted them and bought them together again.

I see myself in a mad round eye, a migrated orb, a lump of gristle and thick growing, every-growing, ever-splitting, ever-seeping.

A hole and its filling, bulbous, meat and sustenance. A pressure on my breath because it is me oh Divines how can this thing be me.

As if in seeing it I become it oh my mind it is monstrous too. And the pressure in my lung hurts ever more.

Fear, pain, agony, scared, alone. The haze.

Help me. Save me. Kill me.

[...]

I can fly I can soar I can leap great bounds in an instant.

I dream, I wander, I walk, I return.

The halls of the house are many and rest upon a far-flung star. A heart that beats and my Lord is calling.

Lord! He calls through the clouds!

And it is a true dream, a many-layered thing shifting into one. The drums and bells of my brethren call me.

I am stronger than ten men, stronger than an Ogrim. I am Talos himself, a ten-winged guar, a dragon in bones and ash.

I will go, but I have one last thing to do.

A subtle crack, more soothing than all the music, a rib pushed to its limit. A post slips its mooring, set on a new path, to meet and make one with the heart.

[...]

When I reach stone walls it is ash and it is fire and it is flesh. I think they are happy to see me. Everything moves. The people. The stones, the ash and the flesh.

The words are ripped from me.

They punch through my chest, a fist thrown in ash, trailing hard, bitter lumps of dust like biting into sweet water and finding bone.

They are not my words, and they are forced through me, pulled into me and from me, like a dry claw down my throat and stabs my lungs, one last time.

"_The Sleeper Awakes_"

Screams and cries of laughter like all the Daedra of Oblivion have come to spite my ears.

"_The Sixth House has Risen_"

I see a mountain, I see a mask.

"_Dagoth Ur is Lord, and I am his Priest_"

I see the thing they build and it is me and I am it.

"_All will be One with Him in the Flesh."_

I see Him.

"_Ilunibi._"

I see her.

One last thought. And it is mine, because I know the redness of her hair, her powerful gait and clipped voice.

A tear in her blue eye.

A message.

* * *

**A/N: **I don't normally write in the first person. I don't normally write in the present tense. I've never written a one-shot. And here I am doing all of these things. This was an experiment for me, an attempt at something far more experimental and impressionistic than I usually write. I wrote it last night in the space of about an hour, during writer's block for my sequel to Fire and Ash. This morning I read it again, made some slight adjustments and decided to submit it here. Does it work? That's want I want to know! This is a great departure in style for me, and I'd appreciate guidance and feedback. If it goes down well, I may try other one shots and short stories, though not necessarily in the same style. Cover image is an old oil pastel of mine, edited in Photoshop.


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